I’ve been moving the past three days. Well, I’ve kind of been moving for about a year now, but it’s taken on a new urgency (no, the police aren’t involved…anymore). I’ve had to clear out my storage space, the house in which I’ve lived the past year, and the house I own but no longer live in.

And after all that, I’ve reached the following conclusion:

Moving sucks.

But moving from three different place sucks three times as bad.

I’m tired…but I’ll still try to summon the energy to write about this trendy San Francisco bar I went to Saturday night in the Mission district. Actually, the bar was kind of lame. Mostly because the doorman was a jerk with a French accent. I don’t know why, but when someone is a jerk and they have a French accent, I want to put them in a headlock and scream Boxcar Willie songs into their ear until they cry.

Or, even better, I want them to have to help me move.

But what was noteworthy was the trip to the club. After an incredibly good dinner at an Ethiopian restaurant, we walked down a side street to this place. There were a few guys scattered around the street, one of whom approached the five of us and asked if we were the police.

Uh, only if the S.F. police have a new policy of dressing like they’re marching off to hang out at trendy places where French doormen don’t let you in without an argument.

So we get to the end of the street and hear 5-6 pops behind us. I know this sound, as I used to live in Koreatown near downtown L.A. For fun, my roommates and I would take our beer to the roof and watch police helicopters chase gangbangers. My girlfriend and her sister know this sound, as their father has killed every animal known to man (and some we still don’t know about). I’m convinced I’m going to walk into his family room some night and see a stuffed dinosaur. A real one.

So, we hightail it across the street and, by the time the French guy with no hair is unleashing the velvet rope, police cars go screaming up the street. We figure either they’re responding to a report of shots fired, or they’re about to arrest the doorman for being a spy.

Sadly, it was for the gunshots. But I called the FBI on the doorman anyway. One can’t be too sure in these troubled times.